


Rubbing It In

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Episode Tag, Extreme Deadline Treat, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean turns up in Seth's hospital room after Orton's beatdown on the 3.9.15 episode of <i>Raw</i>.  He's only there to add insult to injury.  Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rubbing It In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts).



“Does your keeper know you're here?” Seth sneered.

He wasn't quite quick enough with the condescension to hide the way he'd jumped when Dean's shadow fell over the end of his bed. Dean let it ride, if only because he didn't want to look too hard at the way Seth's flinch put his own heart in his throat. He'd come here to rattle Seth's cage. No sense getting squeamish that it had actually worked.

Point of fact, he hadn't told Roman he was headed here. Not because he'd have stopped him – Roman's only got one kid and Dean ain't it – but because he hadn't wanted to deal with that _you poor miserable bastard_ look that Roman had taken to breaking out every time he caught Dean dragging the topic back to Seth.

“Do yours?” he spat back. “I mean, I didn't even have to outsmart your house-elves to get in here. You figure they're that sure Randy won't slither back in for round two? Or do they just not care enough to stop him if he does?”

“Fuck off, Ambrose,” Seth's voice went a little nasal, the way it always had when he was feeling put-down and fed-up, and Dean wasn't proud of how much better that sat with him than the litany of ragged _please_ s that the ring mics had picked up and amplified through the arena's corridors. If he'd been cornered for a post-show interview, he'd have ranted at Phillips or Renee or whoever that it chapped his ass because if Seth was going to beg anyone for forgiveness or mercy, it should've been the Shield. He'd always been better at lying to a crowd than to himself.

“Nah, I'm just here to pay my respects, brother.” He snagged a straight-backed chair from the corner of the room, turned it around backward, and plopped into the seat like he was settling in for the long haul. “I mean, you gotta be the World Heavyweight Champion of making your friends want to break your legs. You get a belt for that, or just a medal?”

“Which part of 'fuck off' do you not understan'?

Dean heard the slur around the edges of his words, and realized that they'd given him something for pain or sleep; Seth had always been a lightweight where the good drugs were concerned. He tried not to remember a loopy Seth draping himself over him in backseats and elevators or slanting sweet, dopey smiles his way or singing nonsense songs with even more complete abandon than usual or laughing himself hoarse at jokes neither Roman nor Dean got or dropping off to deep and lightly-drooling sleep the moment he stopped moving. It worked about as well as every other time he'd tried to forget something about Seth.

“You know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Know you're not so dumb's you let people think.”

His hair was pulled back in a fuzzy knot, and from where he sat, Dean could hardly see any yellow in it at all. It made him look like the Seth he'd met when he first came to Florida, before they'd been rivals or partners or friends or brothers or soulmates. Before he'd become the mistake Dean couldn't quit making.

He watched Seth fight a losing battle against sleep, fidgeting on the starchy sheets and blinking slow with heavy eyelids.

“Dumb enough to trust you, once,” he said, after Seth's eyes had slipped shut and stayed that way for a long moment.

“That was way stupid,” Seth agreed, his bleary eyes opening a crack. “ 'm a bad bet.”

“And I'm a shitty gambler sometimes.”

Seth's only response was a quiet hum, and after a few beats more, Dean judged that he was out. With him asleep, Dean lost both his excuse of being there only to torment him, and any distraction he'd had from the shadows under Seth's eyes and the way he'd curled his arms tight against his chest in a feeble gesture of protection.

He raked hands through his hair and pushed out of his chair, ready to go back to the room and take in Roman's worried pity and a cold beer. But before he'd taken the first step, a small voice croaked out one more word.

“Stay?”

He wanted to be angry, and he was – what kind of brass balls did Seth have, to be asking him for anything except a punch in the face? – but the problem was that angry wasn't _all_ he was. That had always been his problem where Seth was concerned.

He knew that he should go, and his legs were aching to carry him out of the room and on down the road.

He spun the chair the right way around, with more force than was probably necessary, and sank back into it with a sigh. He wasn't quite done doing stupid shit for Seth Rollins's sake, apparently.

He could sit here and wonder if he ever would be until the nurse came to throw him out, anyway.


End file.
